


flight from the city (and in between the endless pauses, we ran)

by ElixirBB



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU - Modern Setting, Angst, BAMF Arya, Blood, F/M, Mentions of Rape, Murder, Petyr is his own warning, Ramsay is His Own Warning, Rough Sex, Sansa is aged up in this, Sex, allusions of rape, and she was aged up in the memories too, bamf Sansa, because Sandor has a filthy mouth, cursing, heed the warnings please, it's a bastardized version of everything, long may fan fiction reign, oh my god it's been a while since I've written, the pack survives, which is fine because well that's what they did to us, you're going to have to suspend your belief for this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 09:44:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19438876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElixirBB/pseuds/ElixirBB
Summary: It’s a fucking cliché, is what it is. Is what this is. What everything is.Because he had his happily ever after. She was gone. Away from the city and the people who wanted to hurt her. Only to be dragged back in by her own fucking accord.





	flight from the city (and in between the endless pauses, we ran)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jillypups](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jillypups/gifts).



> So, it's been a minute since I wrote something and SanSan has always been in the back of my mind. Here's my post Season 8 writing. Hopefully you all like it. My goodness, I've missed this fandom something fierce. I'm going to promise to be more active. 
> 
> Heed the warnings on this because it's kind of dark and kind of angsty and kind of smutty and well, Petyr and Ramsay are their own warnings. Enjoy! Huge inspiration from the composer Johan Johannsson, which where the title sort of comes from. It's a combination of some of the titles of his songs.
> 
> Also, for Jillypups. Because she's lovely and I love her.

It’s a fucking cliché, is what it is. Is what _this_ is. What _everything_ is.

He’s heard the stories before. Who hasn’t? A woman both beautiful and kind tames a monster to show him and others the human inside of him and they live happily ever after.

No one seems to remember that humans are innately monsters and when they do awful things (like the things he’s done), it’s not a surprise but rather humans doing what they do best, _destroy_.

(And somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembers his friend, his friend who studied different religions, his friend who believed in him, his friend who was there for him at his most tumultuous times, and he remembers his friend’s voice, soft with a tinge of sadness, watching him wearily as he raged and raged, his hands drenched in blood, _now I become death, destroyer of worlds_.

But his friend, his friend who studied different religions and believed in him with ferocity, the same way he believed in human kindness, is dead. Murdered. For knowing him and for protecting him. So Sandor did was he was built to do, and destroyed the people who tried to destroy him.)

Sometimes, he thinks they succeeded. (In destroying him.)

Because he had his _happily ever after_. She was gone. Away from the city and the people who wanted to hurt her. Only to be dragged back in by her own fucking accord.

* * *

“You _stupid fucking girl_.” He snarls at her, storming into the room, if one can actually call it that. Her lip is split from where Trant hit her and he remembers the rage that roiled inside of him at the glimpse of her, surrounded by men, grabbed by the arms tight enough to bruise, leading her to where he knows they keep the prisoners. The traitors. The ones who will die soon.

(There’s no one else in here but her, and he thinks it’s a testament to how many people have died here, in this fucking _shit hole_ of a city.

Her father. Brother. Mother. Clearly, she wants to add her name to the list of Starks who come to Kings Landing and don’t leave.)

He expects her to cower in front of him. It’s what she used to do. He expects her to burst out into tears, because the last time he saw her, she was being hauled across the icy river by Brienne Tarth and her sidekick. He was near dead (should have died) but he remembers her screams. His name torn from her lips, as if splitting the sky asunder. As if leaving _him_ for _dead_ is the worst thing _she could imagine_.

But he tries, outstretching his hand towards her, as if by some miracle he could cross the divide between them and hold her in his arms like he’d done before, on the road to North. On the road home.

But he doesn’t reach her and instead, he closes his eyes and remembers car rides and soft laughter, he remembers off key songs and he remembers motel nights, and curious hands and hot to the touch lips. He remembers little breaths and moans and he remembers feeling warmth.

He holds on to this warm feeling before the cold seeps through and his vision turns black.

(Death, at that point, an old welcomed friend.)

“You remember me.” She breathes. Her voice is soft and tired but full of relief and her eyes are bright

Does she think he can _forget_ her? He remembers her in the same way he remembers the way the flames engulfed his face when Gregor burnt him all those years ago.

(A stain on his psyche, engraved in the recess of his mind and somehow, entrenched in his soul.)

She stands defiantly in the middle of the room, in view of the windows, where the light shines on her, embracing her in its warmth. She looks almost otherworldly here. The sun decorating her in a halo-like glow, playing off her red hair, making it resemble flames (like the flames that burned him all those years ago). Her pale skin is prominent, because even here, in this cesspit of a _shit hole_ city, where the sun shines constantly, it doesn’t affect her. Her skin stays pale, like the snowy mountains of her home.

He closes his eyes.

( _I could take you away. No one would hurt you. I would protect you_. Oh. _Oh_ , how he could _rage_.

_Of course_ , he remembers her.

He never forgot her. In the same way, he can never forget the rumours that have been spread about her.

He remembers first hearing about the Bolton Bastard. He remembers the talk and gossip and he remembers how the man’s face, who sprouted off his mouth about Sansa and what was done to her, felt beneath his fists and he remembers the feeling of blood on his knuckles. And he remembers hands on him, pulling him away from the man before he killed him.

He remembers stumbling outside the bar, in this shit hole of a city that he somehow found himself back in and he remembers howling into the night sky, trying to emulate the wolves she loved so much.

Sometimes, in the deepest part of his mind, he thinks the wolves howled back, aware of the grief one of their own suffered.

He knows all about the tragedy that befell her and her thrice-damned family. [Because she was supposed to be safe back North. She was supposed to be safe with Brienne and Pod. He willingly and gladly would have died and thought he did, with the knowledge that she _should have been safe back home_.]

A more tragic family than the Stark’s, he’s never known.

Except for his own, of course.)

He ignores her. He doesn’t want to admit to her that she’s all he’s thought about for years. But instead, all he can feel is the rage inside of him because she was _gone_. She was away from here and the people who were going to slaughter her like a little lamb.

(And he can hear Cersei’s voice, still grieving her son’s death; still sure that Sansa had something to do with it. “Oh, my little dove, you’ve still learned nothing at all, have you? You know nothing about how to play this game because in the end, you still wound up here, where you will answer for your crimes against my family. Against my son.”)

“I heard you were broken in. Heard you were broken in rough.” He regrets the words the instant he says them. She doesn’t deserve them. Doesn’t deserve what happened to her.

She turns to face him and he thinks he stops breathing. Her eyes. It’s _always_ her eyes, isn’t it? Bluer than the bluest sky, so hauntingly empty but so hauntingly alive. She surprises him. This girl from the North. This girl with the blue eyes and the red hair. She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t tear up. She doesn’t sob, even though if _anyone_ in this fucking world has the right to, it’s _her_. Instead, she lifts her head an inch, back ramrod straight. “He got what he deserved. I gave it to him.”

Yes. He heard that too. Heard that his Little Bird tuned into a Little Wolf. Not that it’s helped her because she’s still back here, in this den of fucking vipers. He chuckles, “how?” He wants to hear from her. Wants to hear the word come out of her mouth.

“Hounds.” There’s a quirk of a smile and he allows one too.

“You were _home_. You were back North. Why the fuck did you let Little Fucker bring you back here? Why did you trust him? How many fucking times do I have you tell you not to trust _anyone_?”

“I don’t trust him.” She tells him matter-of-factly and she looks almost miserable that he thinks so little of her. But what’s he supposed to think when he hears that Littlefinger brought her back because he wants to have her pardoned. Because he wants to prove she’s _innocent_. For the love and honour and memory of her _dead fucking parents_.

_What a load of fucking bullshit._

“Little Fucker just wants to fuck you because you’ve the face of your mother. But if there is one thing he loves more than the thought of fucking your mother, it’s fucking her on top of the money the Lannister’s will give him because he brought you to them.”

“I know what he wants.” She snaps at him. “I know what the Lannister’s promised him and I know it’s only a matter of time before they agree on whatever they’ve agreed upon and I-”

He cuts her off, stepping towards and her and she stays her ground and doesn’t move. “Then _why are you here_? _Why did you come back_?” He’s almost yelling at her and he can’t bring himself to feel guilty about it.

“Because I thought you _died_!” She shrieks, flying at him, hands closed into fists and slamming into his chest. “And then _Arya_ told me you _didn’t_! And _you never came back_! _You left me_!”

Arya. The Wolf Bitch. Yet another time he almost died because of a Stark. He met her after the Elder Brother healed him from the cold and his near death experience with Sansa. And when Sandor was on his way out of the North and hopefully someplace warm, he came across the little Stark girl posing as a boy and he hauled her away from the thieves and murderers and tried to bring her home, because he knew that’s what Sansa would have wanted.

And then the little bitch left him to die after a fight with a group of bandits.

(Honestly, sometimes he thinks he does too much for the Starks. But most times, he thinks he doesn’t do enough.)

“And what? You thought to come and _save_ me?” He laughs in her face and ignores her look of hurt. “I’m past saving, Little Bird.” Her nickname slips out. It’s innocent enough but there is a smile on her face, one that almost knocks the wind out of him. It’s a soft smile, an endearing one. Kind and gentle (just like in those fucking stories). “You should have never come here because you’ll be left to get raped by Littlefinger and then get your head lobbed off, joining the rest of your family who thought they could reason with the Lannister’s.”

She shakes her head and cocks an eyebrow, her face neutral. “I’m not here to reason with them.”

“Then what are you here for?”

She doesn’t say anything. She purses her lips and looks to the side. Her eyes holding a torrent of secrets he’s not privy to.

“Little Bird.” She repeats his nickname for her, as if that’s the only things that matters now. “I haven’t heard that in a long time. I’ve missed it, you know.” There is a pause and he knows what she’s going to say before she even says it. “I’ve missed you.”

There is barely time for a breath to leave his body before he has her up against the wall. He grabs her arms, pressing his forearms against them and he’s a heavy fucker compared to her dainty form but she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink. “Don’t _lie_ to _me_ , girl.”

“I’m not.” She tells him and it’s in her soft voice, where he knows she’s not lying. Her breath hitches and he can feel every part of her pressed against him and he feels like absolute shit. He backs away from her, dropping her arms as if they burnt him. He sinks into the shitty bed. “I _mourned_ you.” She steps closer to him, standing between his open legs. She holds his face between her hands, her breath a ghost’s whispers across his face. “I wept for days and thought of you always. _Always_.” He knows what she doesn’t say. He knows that when Bolton had his way with her and tortured her, he was there, always in the back of her mind. Always protecting her, even if in the end, he failed.

Because she’s always there for him too, in the back of his mind, when he sleeps, when he walks down the streets and sees a girl with copper red hair, when he drinks himself drunk and hallucinates her.

“What do you want.” It’s not a question. It never really is with her. He knew the first time he laid eyes on her that he would do anything, slaughter anyone that endangered her.

“I want you to take me home.”

* * *

When he left the Lannister’s with Sansa in tow, he never regretted it. When he dragged Arya from the first band of merry idiots she managed to link up with, he never regretted it, even though he _should_ have since she left him to _die_ and didn’t give him mercy enough to kill him.

The Elder Brother found him again, as if by some fucking miracle and nursed him back to health again. And the Elder Brother became a friend to him and he thought he could live like this, in seclusion, with nature and not have to worry about the Lannister’s or Stark’s or those fucking Targaryen’s (he’s heard the rumours and wants nothing to fucking do with fuck all.)

But then the Lannister’s found him again and he killed the majority of them but not before they killed the Elder Brother (his _friend_ ) and Jaime, the sister-fucker, told him that he could come back and work for them and all would be forgiven.

“Didn’t you promise Catelyn Stark and that big blonde bitch that you would save the Stark girls?”

Jaime’s face falls. “The girls _are_ safe.”

Sandor laughs and laughs until he feels like he’s going to throw up because the Elder Brother’s body is lying in front of him, eyes glazed and dead and open, as if begging him to save him and he couldn’t. He _couldn’t_. He didn’t. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

(He doesn’t like the Lannister’s. Has zero fucking respect for them.

Left them for quite some time, tried to start anew, but he is what he is and that’s a monster and all he knows is to kill. So he found his way back to them, because it’s either kill or be killed.

_Killing is the sweetest thing there is_ , he remembers telling Sansa, as he grabbed her from the crowd of Joffrey’s wedding as that little shit choked on his own fucking cake. His bride stowed away back to her grandmother in their fucking fortress. He would bet his money on the old bat. She hated the Lannister’s almost as much as he does.)

And besides, he thinks being close to the Lannister’s is the best thing there is right now. He still has unfinished business with them. He still has his revenge to take.

And if there is one thing that he does well, it’s take.

* * *

It takes them a couple of days. He wants to leave immediately but Sansa shakes her head and tells him to wait.

She has a plan but won’t tell him and he’s kind of pissed off about that because on his count, it’s his third time saving a Stark girl and he deserves to know the plan. But he lets her have this. Lets her have some semblance of control, since the majority of her life, she didn’t.

He packs light, not that he has much anyways. And makes his way back to her room in the dead of the night, when Cersei (the crazy bitch) is finally the fuck asleep.

He sneaks into the Little Bird’s room and stops dead.

Petyr Baelish is on her bed, throat slashed.

And Sansa fucking Stark is holding the dagger that killed him. There is blood spatter on her shirt and face and arms. She looks at him with eyes so furious they gleam.

“He tried to force himself on me. Told me that for keeping me safe, he was owed his due.” She shakes her head, body shaking. He doesn’t know if it’s from shock or from rage or both. “So I slashed his throat.” There is a pause. She blinks. “I wanted to cut his head off in the same way he cut my father’s off but I couldn’t. I wasn’t strong enough to.”

He blinks. And laughs before he shuts his mouth and remembers that it’s the dead of the fucking night and they’re supposed to already be gone. “No one,” he tells her, “can say that you’re not strong, Little Bird. Not after everything you’ve survived.” He runs a hand through his hair. “We don’t have the time to clean this up. Or you up. We need to leave now.”

She wipes the dagger on her jeans and slips it in her left shoe. “I don’t want to clean this up. I want them to know that I’m not a child anymore. I want them to know that wolves run in packs and that Starks will always have their justice.” She pauses and takes a deep breath, steadying herself. “The North Remembers.”

He glances at the dead body on the bed and then at her and suppresses a shiver, not recognizing the girl in front of him anymore. And he wonders if he held on to the fact that she would be the same Little Bird he always knew, that he always tried to take care of. That he always tried to save and realizes that maybe, she doesn’t need saving anymore.

(But if he’s not saving Sansa Stark, then what fuck worth is he, anymore?)

“Yeah,” he says softly, reaching his hand towards her slowly, “the North remembers.”

She stares at his hand and places hers in his. Her bloody fingers interlacing with his and squeezing tightly.

(He ignores the jump his heart makes).

And so, like a fucking cliché, they run.

* * *

They drive almost eighteen hours. Stopping to fill gas in his car and grab food. They take the long winding roads, he tells her to keep her head down and hair covered but she shakes her head and instead opens the window and lets the warm breeze whip through hair, keeping her untamed and wild.

“You’re going to get us caught.”

She gives him a small smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

It’s when he can’t keep his eyes open that he pulls into a motel and grabs one room.

She follows him up the stairs to their room, engulfed in one of his sweaters. It comes down to her knee but at least it covers the bloodstains on her body.

Once in the room, he bolts the door and seals the windows, checking everything once and twice for security. Once he’s done, he turns to look at her but she’s already shedding off her clothes. He’s stuck in his spot, looking at her retreating back as she reaches back and unclasps her bra, throwing it on the bed. She places an arm across her chest and turns her face towards him. “I want to shower.” She says. “I smell and feel disgusting. Can you keep watch?”

He nods, not knowing what else to say and keeping his eyes planted on the dirty rug beneath their feet. Because if he lets his eyes wander, then they’ll trail up her shapely legs and her ass, small but plump and barely covered by lace and he’ll remember the first time in a motel room like this and he’ll remember curious hands and hot to the touch lips, and he’ll remember little breaths and soft moans.

She makes her way into the bathroom and turns on the shower. She shimmies out of her lace underwear and folds it on top of a towel.

He keeps his eyes trained to the ground, like a good little dog.

Three beats pass (he knows, he counted them). She turns on the shower and steps inside, disappearing from view behind the shower curtain. He walks backwards to the bathroom door, his frame taking the whole of it, takes out his gun, turns the safety off and cocks it, ready if anything or anyone comes through the front door.

He can feel the heat of the shower and knows that he’s due for one too but he can wait until she’s back to safety. Until she’s back home.

It’s probably fifteen minutes before the water turns off and he hears the curtain pull back. He keeps his back to her. He waits until she stands next him, smelling as clean as free motel soap and shampoo can get her. She hugs the towel to her body.

“I don’t have any extra clothes.”

He figured she didn’t, considering they left her in the clothes she came in with. So he nicked some clothes from one of the whores he fucked ages ago. She had a habit of leaving her clothes in the rooms of men she fucked. He fucked her a few times. She was average.

(She had red hair. Not natural. The red that came out of the box, but if he came hard enough, he could almost imagine a different, more natural shade of red.)

“I packed some for you.” He said, pointing to his duffle bag, clicking the safety back on his gun and placing it on the bedside table next to the bed. “Should fit. Might be a bit big.”

She gives him a quirky smile and tilts her head to the side. “Do you often have spare women’s clothing?”

He shrugs. “Belonged to a whore I fucked a few times.”

Her face becomes ice, “Was she good?” She asks conversationally.

He eyes her warily. “She was a whore.”

She stands up, hair wet, despite her towel drying. She rummages through his duffle bag and grabs one of his shirts. She drops the towel and he loses all sense of sound. Everything around him dims; all that’s in focus is Sansa Stark’s naked and scarred body.

(And she’s fucking _perfect_ ).

“If I asked you to fuck me again, would you?”

_Yes_. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

She shrugs, shirt still clenched in her hand and leans back against the mattress, spread out to him. “I think we’re all a little bit out of our fucking minds.” There is a beat. Two breaths, one his, one hers and then, a pause. “When Brienne and Pod took me from you, it was fine. All was well, they were nice, I trusted them. And then Petyr and his men found us. Brienne and Pod were hurt trying to protect me and Petyr took me. He told me he was going to take me back home. But the thing is, _you_ were taking me back home and then _Brienne_ and _Pod_ were taking me back home and I believed _you_ and _them_. I didn’t believe Petyr. He told me about Bran and Rickon. He told me they died and that Theon betrayed us and I couldn’t believe but it happened.”

She’s still naked but all he can concentrate on is the sound of her voice, the far away look in her eyes, the grief that she holds in her body. When he last saw her naked body, she was smooth and unblemished but he sees the scars from Bolton and knows that the gossip didn’t even come close to the horrible truth in front of him.

“He _did_ take me back to Winterfell. Not before he took me to Riverrun and killed my Aunt Lysa. She was crazy but she was still my aunt and still so very in love with the man who only ever loved her sister. He sold me to Bolton, who took over my home and supposedly killed my brothers. Theon was there. Trapped in his own mind and his own horrors and I _hated_ him. I hated him so fucking much for what he did. Jeyne, my best friend from when I was younger was there, and she was traumatized and I realized this place I was in, this place I used to call _home_ , was desecrated by a man who liked to flay people alive.”

She laughs and it’s a bitter sound and she points to various parts of her body, where he knows the mark of flayed skin. “He thought I was a virgin. Petyr told him I was a virgin. Needless to say, he was furious when he realized I wasn’t and he demanded to know who and he demanded to know when but I wouldn’t say a thing.” She looks him in the eyes then. “You would have been proud of me, I think. I didn’t scream.”

He’s felt his heart break before, when Gregor burnt his face, when Gregor killed his father, when Gregor killed his mother, when Gregor killed his little sister. He thought that was all the heartbreak he would have to endure.

(But he was wrong. He’s _always wrong_ when it comes to _Sansa Stark_.)

“I convinced Theon to help me. I convinced Jeyne to come with us and we fled. We ran and ran and ran until we ran right into Brienne and Pod. They took us to Castle Black and my cousin Jon was there. He thought we all died. When I told him what happened, we hatched a plan. We built an army of people still loyal to my father and Robb and some people and we stormed Winterfell and took it back.” There’s a pause. “That’s when I killed him by hounds.”

“Arya came back home a week after that and Bran and Rickon soon after that and with all of the living Starks in one place, Petyr slinked back in. We knew what he did to our father. Knew it all and we did what we had to do. We did the only thing we know.”

“And what’s that?” His voice is hoarse and he croaks it out. He doesn’t know if he’s affected by her naked body or her story of sorrow.

“Justice.” She says softly. She falls silent and neither speak. All he can hear is the sound of air-conditioning in the room and crickets outside. He can hear owls and somehow, in the distance, breaking through the night air, he thinks he hears howls. “I don’t regret it, you know.” She says. “Us.” She gives him a smile and it’s soft and shy and wholesome, as if she’s not spread out like some painting come alive by artists long dead and gone. “It’s the only happy memory I have.”

_And isn’t that sad_ , he thinks, that he, _a dog, is her only happy memory_.

He knows how this goes. He’s known how this will go, the moment they walked into this fucking motel room. He’s leading her back home (or maybe she’s leading them back home), but all he know is that by all the Gods, he doesn’t believe in, he’ll let her lead him into the deepest pit of hell, if it comes down to it.

When she looks at him this time, it’s with dazzling blue eyes that are hungry. “You won’t hurt me.” She says it so openly, so honestly that he’s floored by it. He ignores his impeding existential crises.

“No.” He chokes out, taking a step towards her. “I won’t hurt you.”

* * *

She tastes like what remembers. She tastes like what he thinks the fucking heavens taste like. And she looks like sin, sprawled out on the bed, hair a mess, face and body flushed. She is swollen all over, his fingerprints leaving their mark in place of the marks that stain her body.

She mewls when he tears his face from her cunt and presses his throbbing cock to her entrance. Her eyes are open, mouth open and she gives him a slight nod, nails raking down his back as he pushes in and she lets out a gasp, mixed in with a sob and begs him for more.

And so he pushes and pulls, grabbing her ass and pressing her tighter against him until she cries out. He fills out every inch of her and she still begs for more. Tells him how she’s _dreamed of this_. Tells him of how she used to _touch herself to the thought of him_. Tells him that he’s _perfect_.

And then she cuts off, back arching violently as she explodes and he’s not ashamed to admit he only lasts a few more thrusts and then he’s emptying himself inside of her.

She’s shaking, still on her comedown and loosely wraps her long legs around his waist.

He rolls off of her, the weight of everything, heavy on his mind.

She slides behind him, pressing her naked and sweaty body against his. And kisses the ruined part of his neck. “Thank you.” She whispers.

She slinks beneath the covers and closes her eyes, losing herself to sleep and he lays awake, trying to get his heartbeat under control.

He’s well aware that this old dog, this old beast, has a new master now.

* * *

When he wakes up in the morning, it’s to a body pressed against his and a hand wrapped around his cock. He groans, instantly becoming hard.

She climbs on top of him when he peels his eyes open and she looks glorious like this, the shadow of dawn breaking into the room, her hovering above his cock, leading him into her warmth. She sucks in a deep breath when he’s fully inside of her and he grips her hips, moving her slowly over him.

She leans forward, her puckered nipples grazing his skin and everything feels fucking _electric._

She’s panting in his ear. “If I asked you to fuck me hard, would you?”

He nods, not trusting his voice.

“Sandor,” she whimpers, “please fuck me hard.”

He pulls her off of him and turns her around on her stomach, climbing on top of her. “You okay like this?” He asks before he does anything.

She nods, hands gripping the sheets.

He lifts her hips up and slides into her cunt. She moans and he groans. He snakes his hand underneath her and slinks a finger along her clit. She bucks and pants hotly. “Fuck.” She curses.

He moves her hair from her face and sucks her neck. “Thought that’s what you wanted me to do?”

She can’t say anything but bucks against him again and he thrusts in and out of her. She’s fucking herself on his cock and fingers and moaning in tandem with his thrusts and he knows that he’s in heaven. That she would want him again, that she would let him touch her again.

It doesn’t take long for her to orgasm and she keens loudly. He waits until she catches her breath, before he pulls her up on hands and knees. “Little Bird?” he pants wildly.

“It’s fine,” she gasps. “You won’t hurt me.”

“Never.”

She’s holding on to a pillow and he’s thrusting wildly, the slapping of his balls against her loud and she’s moaning again, saying things like _please_ and _yes_ and _Gods, Sandor, you feel so good,_ and all he can think about is that he could get lost in her. That he never wants to leave this shitty motel room.

(That he _loves_ her. That he’s _always loved_ her.)

She lets out a cry. “I love you too. Oh God, Sandor, _I love you too_.”

He comes hard enough that his eyesight blurs and when he comes down, he remembers that he said he loved her aloud and that _she loves him back_. When he clambers away from her, she turns around, sways and holds on to him, naked and sweaty body pressed to his. Both of them are heaving, chests moving up and down. “ _I love you_ and that’s why I couldn’t leave you there. I couldn’t let you die. Not again.”

He trails a hand up her back spine, to the back of her head, gathering up her fire-red hair, buries his face in it and loses himself to Sansa Stark.

* * *

He’s getting breakfast at a fast-food place when he sees it on the television.

_BREAKING NEWS: LANNISTER’S FOUND DEAD._

There are pictures, some of them blurred and some of them not but what he does see is that the Red Keep is burnt to the ground. Jamie Lannister is dead, golden hand, shining underneath a white sheet. Cersei is dead, confirmed by professionals on the scene. Greyjoy, the fucking wanker and his men, dead and those who aren’t dead are surrendering to the police.

He grabs their food and hauls ass out of there, storming his way back to the motel and up to the room. Sansa is packing their stuff calmly, the television in their room on. She looks at him and cocks her head. “You think you’d be happier.”

“You _knew_.”

She nods, folding a shirt and putting it in the bag, zipping it up. “ _I planned it_. With the help of Arya and my brothers and Jon.”

“You ever think of who’s going to fucking take over? That there’ll be another _full out war_ for Kings Landing?”

“Well,” she says conversationally, as if they’re having talking about a concert or movie, “I suppose it’ll be Dany who takes the throne.”

“The Targaryen bitch? The one whose father basically got everyone into this mess?”

Sansa snorts and all he can think about is how unladylike that is. “Yeah, well, that’s actually much more complicated. But she helped us with Ramsay and his men, she helped us with our justice and we helped her take Kings Landing. And then she leaves the North alone.” There is a pause and Sansa _hmms_. “She must have enjoyed completing her list.”

“ _What_?”

“Brown eyes. Blue eyes. Green eyes.”

“ _What_?”

“Arya.” Sansa tells him, grabbing the bag and hefting it on her shoulder. “She had a list of people she wanted to kill. I think she was angry about not killing Littlefinger but she taught me everything I know.”

“Is that so?” He croaks, mind racing and _unable to comprehend fucking anything_.

She grins at him and she looks so young in this moment. She looks _free_. His heart clenches. “Stick them with the pointy end.” She takes a deep breath. “Sandor? Can we go home now?”

“Yeah, Little Bird. We can go home.” 

* * *

Bran Stark is in a wheelchair and Rickon is wild-eyed and wild haired and looks like a miniature Sansa.

Arya Stark has her boots on the table and when Sansa comes closer to her, she slaps them off. “How many times do I have to tell you? _No boots on the table_.”

Arya rolls her eyes, a smile on her face. It falls off when she sees him. “See you haven’t managed to die yet.”

“Not for a lack of trying apparently.”

“Where’s Jon?” Sansa asks.

“Here.” Jon Stark says, coming through the hallway on the right. He places a kiss on each of his siblings (cousins? He’s still trying to wrap his mind around that from the story Sansa told him on the ride up) foreheads.

“How was it?” Arya asks Sansa.

Sansa doesn’t ask her to clarify, instead she smiles. “Like vindication. You?”

Arya grins. “Like revenge.”

“Rickon broke Great-Grandmother’s china set.” Bran blurts out.

Rickon groans.

“Rickon!” Sansa yelps. “Those were over _one hundred years old_!”

Jon winces. Arya laughs loudly. “They were fucking ugly.”

Sandor inches towards the window in the room they’re in, overlooking the courtyard. He can see men, women and children, most of whom keep the grounds and help around the house. He can see Theon Greyjoy and Jeyne walking together in the courtyard. He can see Brienne and Pod examining everything and stopping to talk to people they know. He can see bodyguards and he can see where they need to tighten up and secure the parameter better.

He can see the sprawling mountains covered with snow.

He turns his head back to the room and sees the Starks, the _last living_ Starks, all together, back home. He can hear their laughter and their voices and he thinks that _this_ is where they were _always meant to be_. And he thinks that somewhere, in the heavens he doesn’t believe in, unless it’s between Sansa’s thighs, the long since passed Starks are breathing a sigh of relief, that not only a Stark, but _all of the living Starks_ are back where they belong.

He catches Sansa’s eyes and she smiles at him, making her way over to him and stretching out a hand for him to grab.

He’s transported back in time, to where a river lays between them and the cold bites at them and he’s dead, or almost dying, and she’s shrieking his name, as if trying to tear the sky asunder, hand outstretched towards him, trying to reach out to him, trying to hold him. And he remembers trying to reach across the divide between them and hold onto her, hold on to the only thing that mattered to him.

He couldn’t reach her hand then.

But he does now.

And somehow, somewhere, in the heavens he doesn’t believe in, unless it’s between Sansa’s thighs, he’s found home.

(What a fucking cliché.)

* * *

Outside, wolves howl into the wind, signifying the Starks finally taking their place where they belong.

_Home._

(There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.)


End file.
